


Gloves

by Rokutagrl



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokutagrl/pseuds/Rokutagrl
Summary: Koushirou leaves his gloves behind on the coldest day of the year, but Taichi has his own solution for finding warmth.





	Gloves

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is something of a re-post of my first ever one shot that I wrote about nine (!!!!!) years ago. It's been heavily edited (read: rewritten), so save for a few lines and the major "plot", it's almost entirely it's own story now.

Koushirou breathes hot air onto his slowly numbing fingers. The action does little but bring forth a brief puff of condensation. Of all the days to have forgotten his warm, cotton black gloves on the foyer table it just _had_ to be the day when snow threatens in the forecast and he's got yet another hour to wait before the venue's set to open.  
  
He likes to think his mother is partially to blame for his current predicament. She'd made sure he didn't forget to grab his scarf before leaving, but then she had started back up about how pleased she was to see her son leaving his room on a Friday night that she'd pushed him out the door without sparring a thought for his fingers. Maybe she hoped they'd freeze over until the digits were nothing more than decorations, at which point Koushirou might finally concede his obsession with computers.  
  
_Fat chance._  
   
But the true architect of his ruination bumps against his side with a careful nudge. "It's cold, huh?"  
  
_An understatement_ , Koushirou thinks. He gives nothing but a terse hum in response.   
  
"Don't be mad at me," Taichi sniffs. "It's not like I was the one who forgot your gloves."  
  
He's not truly mad. At least, not completely with Taichi. Koushirou's got some autonomy. It's just his idea of a fun weekend doesn't usually start outdoors, in the cold, waiting in line for the biggest event to hit Odaiba all year. All of this is undoubtedly Taichi's warped sense of a good time.  
  
"Come on, Kou,” the brunet had begged him just a mere two weeks ago. He was toweling off the perspiration dripping down the side of his face after soccer practice and standing _just so_ in front of the evening sun filtering through the gymnasium windows that it highlighted every one of his best features. Taichi had a lot of those. "We haven't seen Yamato in so long. It'll be so much fun! Pretty please?"  
  
Koushirou wasn't strong enough to decline him again.  
  
"Look," Taichi says, bumping into Koushirou's personal bubble once more, "I'll make it up to you for coming with me." Koushirou lets out a sigh then, watching the breath in his lungs take flight.  
  
"It's fine." He really does try to sound reassuring. Truly, he wants to seem like he's having a good time tonight, but his heart's not in the concert scene. He loves Yamato, dearly, but he's listened to the band enough from when they were still renting out garages not just last year and the music just isn't to his taste. Crowds, even less so.  
  
And if he's going to continue to be honest he's just a little paranoid that his fingers are actually going to become causalities in his slip of judgement, even if he knows better.  
  
"Here," Taichi says. Soft fabric taps Koushirou's cheek and he's so beyond thankful and mystified when he takes the pair of gloves from Taichi's hand that he almost forgets to actually thank him.  
  
_No_ , wait. It's not a pair.  
  
When he looks over at his companion, Taichi's waving his newly exposed right hand. The left, he notes, is still clothed.  
  
_Oh_ , he thinks. _We're sharing._  
  
He opens his mouth to ask more, but instead of words only icy smoke comes forth. Taichi's already shooting him a smile that reads, "Trust me." And so, not for the first time, he puts his faith in the brunet.  
  
The relief in his right hand is immediate as he slips the glove over it. Warmth chases down the tip of his fingers to the heel of his palm until there's only a bracelet of frigid cold left where the wool doesn't meet up with the sleeve of his porter jacket, but he'll live. His left hand doesn't fair as well; it’s starting to feel like a brick of flexible ice.  
  
Before them, the line stirs and begins inching forward. The queue behind Koushirou jostles around to keep up. Someone steps down on the ankle of one of Koushirou's sneakers without an apology and he stumbles forward just a little.  
  
It's about then that he almost misses it when a tentative finger taps the back of his left hand. He's a little more aware of something happening when the line stops and three fingers hesitate just around the curve of his palm.  
  
It's an undeniable sensation, though, when a warm hand cups around his own.  
  
Taichi wields his scarf like a shield from the cold and, he suspects, Koushirou's eyes. But the red head sees just enough to know the familiar blemish of a blush forming under the wind burn on his tanned cheeks.  
  
Not too far behind them, someone makes a snickering sound followed by a comment. Of what exactly, Koushirou isn't completely sure. The words themselves are eaten by the crowd around them and carried away on the wind that hisses angrily past his ears. Normally, he thinks, this would be an invitation to ruminate-- to just assume they're sharing snide comments at Koushirou's expense. But the normal swell of anxiety doesn't come forth.  
  
Instead, a thumb rubs his skin akin to sparking flint stones together and it ignites a wildfire in Koushirou's chest. It breaches every surface of his body until he's certain his face is as red as his hair. So, really, he can't find it in himself to care about things that don't matter as much as Taichi Yagami or the way his hand molds to the contour of Koushirou's own.  
  
Even now, when the temperature is toeing the line just below freezing, Koushirou feels invincible to even the cold. It's incredible.  
  
Still, it's a blessing when they make it inside with the industrial heaters working overtime. Combined with the body heat of thousands of other concert-goers, it feels like Koushirou has stepped into a layer of the sun. It's unbearable to keep his jacket on now, but Koushirou refrains from shrugging it off solely because Taichi hasn't let go of his hand yet. He's got this theory in the works that _maybe_ warmth isn't Taichi's only motivation for holding his hand. It's more plausible when they work their way over to the line for their seats ( _god_ , yes, more lines) and the risk of getting lost in the crowd slims to nothing when they're standing stagnant, shoulder to shoulder. Despite this, Taichi seems to hold on even tighter.  
  
Distantly, someone shouts, "Snow!" The word echoes several hundred times over in whispers and whoops of delight.  
   
Over his own shoulder, Koushirou watches through the large windows as the sky opens up, allowing little flurries to dot the skyline. He spares a moment to mourn the rest of the poorly dressed fans still waiting on their turn to enter the stadium.  
  
"Hey, so uh... later..." Taichi's already leaning down towards his right ear. The brunet hesitates a moment longer and Koushirou is honestly impressed when he seamlessly intertwines their fingers without breaking skin contact at all.  
  
When he speaks again, Koushirou thinks the conspiratorial tone in Taichi's voice should elicit a wary response. For most sensible people, it would. And if it were any other being on this planet, in this galaxy--digital or otherwise--aside from Taichi... Koushirou knows he'd still be at home right now, warm and snug with only a chorus of computer monitors for company.  
  
But when Taichi smiles in the way that shows off his infuriatingly symmetrical dimples, well, Koushirou thinks he could follow him practically anywhere. It hasn't led him astray yet.  
  
"Later..." Taichi continues, the tip of his ears reddening. "If you're still cold, say like your lips or something... I can help you warm them up..."  
  
The walk home, Koushirou muses with a smile of his own, probably won't be so bad. Even if it's still snowing outside later that evening. When Taichi squeezes his hand, Koushirou can't say he has many regrets about going outside tonight at all.  
  
Not for leaving his room.  
  
And especially not for having left his warm, cotton black gloves on the foyer table.


End file.
